


Organic Relations

by Cuppa_Cake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, sherlock and john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Cake/pseuds/Cuppa_Cake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries his hand at deduction and Sherlock tries his hand at suction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Organic Relations

Despite the abysmal scenery of the dirty alleyway and the cloudy sky, John felt at ease. This was where he was meant to be, by Sherlock’s side. Granted, John had a container of iced organs in his hands and just around the corner was the taped off crime scene of a car which had been splattered by a body that seemed to have fallen from the sky. 

The detective was growing more and more excited with the case now that he had just dug those gruesome clues from amongst garbage. He was smiling, looking from a fresh pile of vomit on the grimy ground of the alley, to the container in John’s hand, then upward to the roof of the nearby building. He then produced his mobile. 

“When a case ceases to make sense it usually boils down to sentimentalism and misplaced morality… The ever-unpredictable human condition…” Sherlock was texting someone, no doubt Lestrade, to come pick up his little party favor.

Had John never been intimate with Sherlock he might’ve thought the detective to be without this ‘human condition.’ Shortly after the text was sent, someone with the likeness of a velociraptor trudged into the alley.

“Well, hand it over, Sherlock…” Anderson sneered upon approach.

Sherlock’s attention was pulled from the sky, his face scrunching a bit at the appearance of the forensics team. He matched Anderson’s sneer. “Why certainly, Anderson…” he said so nicely it was nauseating. “Anything short of _handing it over_ and you wouldn’t be expected to find it at all. You should really consult someone about your nearsightedness.” The sickening smile dropped into a glare. “Where’s Lestrade? I texted _him_.”

“He’s busy. You’re lucky Lestrade even lets you near crime scenes.” Anderson was near enough to snatch the cooler from John’s hand, still glaring at Sherlock. “Who knows maybe _you_ planted this evidence…”

John subconsciously began to curl his hand into a fist. He didn’t like it when people insulted Sherlock. More often than not it ended with someone getting a bloody nose.

The sleuth made a dramatic point of turning his shoulder towards Anderson. “There are simpler ways of making you look like a moron than planting perfectly good kidneys and a liver in an alleyway.”

With a huff, Sherlock shoved his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat. John was about to speak when Sherlock caught his eye. The man was silently indicating with the flicker of his gaze that it was time to go. John squared his shoulders and pushed past Anderson, making sure to knock into him in passing. The soldier could be a force to be reckoned with. Whatever the beef between Anderson and Sherlock, John would always side with the detective. 

“Have you noticed how tiny his head is?” John asked when he finally caught up to his friend.

Sherlock, whose brisk steps eased up when John joined him, only glanced askance to him, a smile almost appearing before he seemed to force it down again. “I hadn’t, actually…” he said with interest. “It’s difficult to see past his nose.”

John let out a high-pitched laugh, a hand coming to rest on his stomach. “Is that why Lestrade referred to him as his sniffer dog?” 

A short, deep laugh burst out of Sherlock. At that moment, Sally Donovan was passing by. She obviously heard their jokes and made it known by frowning their way. Sherlock flashed her a sardonic smile while John tried his best to hide his amusement, but those giggles just kept slipping out!

Sherlock leaned in discreetly to John. “We’re going to the rooftop. I want to have a look before they get to it. Assuming they have sense enough to…” 

It was no ordinary building that they were approaching, it was a church. As they came to the broad doors, John’s gaze followed all the way up to the bell tower. It had been quite some time since he had entered a church. Reaching forward to do the honors he took hold of the brass handle and the door opened with a groan. Looking to Sherlock he motioned for him to go in first. _After you_. 

There was a nearly unnoticeable smile on Sherlock’s face before he put on his usual calm stoicism and stepped inside. It was a good thing John’s limp was psychosomatic. The moment they were within the hallowed walls of the church, he was barely able to keep up with Sherlock due to those short legs. Sherlock led the way through the pews, along the walls, then up the stairs that led to the second level. He would pause, scan his surroundings, and move on. Their steps echoed upon the wood floor and John inwardly winced. Sherlock was like a blur of black and royal purple, John was lucky enough to catch sight of the scarf!

He could practically hear Sherlock’s heart thrumming in his chest. Excitement was exemplified in Sherlock’s quick movements, the adrenaline searing through the detective’s veins like white hot lightening. They passed doors in a long stretch of hallway and eventually reached a flight of winding steps, all going up. And up he went, a flurry of coat tails and a scarf as the promise of more clues spurred him on in the chase. John, as usual, was expected to simply keep up.

Going up so many flights of stairs was dizzying and John had to take a moment to catch his breath and find his stomach. Cheeks puffed outward as he expelled oxygen. Onward he went till they came to the rooftop and he saw the clouded sky. The railing wasn’t more than a few feet away from the door, and right above them the brick walls of the clock tower. Sherlock was busy looking over the rail and John barely managed to peek over. God they were high up. Placing his hands on his hips John drew back. Yup that’s enough vertigo for one day.

“A rational mind wouldn’t toss a corpse off of a church in broad daylight…” Sherlock seemed to be talking to himself as he looked at the specks below. “No savvy thief would throw thousands of pounds worth of perfectly marketable human organs into the garbage…” Gloved hands gripped at the railing, his long neck craning as he looked over the scaling wall beneath them. 

“Sherlock, could we not talk about the victim like he’s some sort of rump roast you can buy at the butchers?” It made John cringe, but he dutifully produced a small notebook and pen from the metal binding. 

“The vomit in the alley was fresh and was lacking in any smell of alcohol—so probably shaken nerves caused it… A moral crisis…” Sherlock rambled on in his usual word vomit. “The hack job on the dropped body shows inexperience, so he’s clearly not in the medical field or what might be deemed professional organ harvesting… Having been driven to dabble in organ stealing—undoubtedly by extreme debt or the like—he preferred to give up his potential profit and risk capture—so we’re looking for someone who is in financial trouble with a strong moral sense. I would expect he has a clean police record as well, judging by his easily shaken nerves in the face of breaking human and British laws…”

John had reached four pages worth of scribbling when he looked up in response to the sound of frustration in Sherlock’s voice. He caught the sight of teeth meeting flesh as Sherlock gnawed his lower lip. John’s gaze unintentionally fixated there.

“Why throw a body off of a bloody church?” Sherlock said with agitation, his fingers rapping loudly on the railing.

“Well let’s think here for a moment,” John said softly. “Maybe the church was used out of convenience?” He avoided looking down again when he came to Sherlock’s side. “And the church is located on a pretty busy street. Perhaps he was hoping that the body would be too damaged by traffic to identify. It would be the perfect cover up for sloppy work…”

As Sherlock listened his frown smoothed away and gradually he became calmer. It was ironic that John managed to make the sleuth stop thinking long enough to… well, think. Sherlock finally let go of the railing, his spine straightening as he stared fixedly at John.

“Which means the surgery would have been done within these very walls…” Sherlock sounded satisfied with the conclusion, but more so with John’s try at deduction. “He knew he couldn’t carry it out the front doors or leave it to be discovered, so he brought it here….” By now the pitch in his voice had dropped and he crept nearer. 

Gloved hands suddenly grabbed the front of John’s jacket.

“Sh-Sherlock what are you doing?” He became panicked.

He was pulled up to balance on his toes, his words cut off by the abrupt meeting of lips. A small growl of gratification rolled from Sherlock. They were in public! But John didn’t even have time to flail, for his mind simply went blank. He loved the taste of Sherlock’s lips and was suddenly reminded about how much he loved him. The doctor melted into Sherlock’s leaner frame and he found himself wrapping his arms around him.

“We’re… ( _kiss_ )… in…( _kiss_ )… the house… ( _kiss_ )… of the… ( _kiss_ )… Lord…” Despite his worrying he couldn’t break the kiss at all.

“I don’t see a roof over us…” Sherlock broke the kiss just long enough for the words to come out in hot breaths. 

_Cheeky bastard._

John didn’t have time to respond when his body was being moved backward, forcing his back against the bell tower’s wall. Air was pushed out of his lungs when spine met brick. Sherlock’s tongue delved hungrily. John’s hands crawled up the other man’s throat to settle on both side of his face, sharp cheekbones caressed by calloused thumbs and hot to the touch. Slender hips pushed forward, grinding an already hard bulge into John’s groin and spurring the same reaction. 

_This is dangerous._

That little voice in John’s head was screaming at him and yet the soldier chose to ignore it. The fronts of his teeth bore down on Sherlock’s lower lip and John arched his back, pushing off the wall to exert some pressure onto Sherlock’s groin.

“Stop…” John moaned against those wanting lips, which echoed the sound. “No don’t stop…” At war with himself John Watson carried on.

Fingers finally uncoiled from the doctor’s coat, leaving it wrinkled and bunched as they dropped to grab hold of the softer part of John’s rear, pulling him in even harder. John pushed his pelvis forward with need. The difference in height caused Sherlock’s spine to bend into a hunch, but he was unfazed as he continued to devour John’s conflicted protests. More forced friction was applied between the hardening in their trousers, a guttural sound escaping from Sherlock as he broke the kiss and left John’s mouth tingling.

Wetted lips were still practically touching, Sherlock’s voice so low that it was more vibration than sound. “No one knows we’re up here…” 

_Maybe just God and a few pigeons flying overhead._

The detective’s words were far from comforting, they came out dark and foreboding, like the narrator of a horror flick. And to be honest… John _loved_ the risk. There was no better aphrodisiac than a mystery and some danger. A hand then pressed firmly to John’s chest, fingers splayed across the sternum to pin him in place as Sherlock was suddenly dipping low. The detective’s free hand was wandering and John felt a draft. He was quite efficiently loosening John’s belt. Barely looking down, he already knew what Sherlock was doing. Brown eyes then lifted skyward and he focused on the darkening clouds, licking his lips in preparation for the unescapable. 

The belt was swiftly undone, followed by the button and zipper before John’s trousers were pulled downward just enough for better access to the strained fabric of the doctor’s underwear. But the sleuth paused to peel off his leather gloves and slap them to the ground. John’s underpants were given a less-than-gentle pull to free the stiffened organ and the cold air on hot flesh made him gasp.

John’s heart was pounding, sweat was dripping and his body exposed. Not once did he look down at Sherlock who was exploring new territory. He could hear Sherlock’s breathing as it hitched in his chest with the nearest thing to nervousness John had detected. Then, warm digits wrapped around the base, sliding along the shaft with a deft amount of pressure from end to end. It was funny. No matter how new Sherlock was at something, the man always seemed to be perfect at it. 

There was a warm, preliminary suckle before Sherlock’s mouth suddenly engulfed the tip of his swollen head in one slow movement and it caused John to shudder. His whole body shook and he found his palms plastered to the brick wall. He held on for dear life when Sherlock swallowed him down again. It’s not like he hadn’t had a blow job before but this… this was different. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he gulped down the frigid air into his desperate lungs.

Sherlock pulled back, allowing the cool damp air to hit the moistened flesh as he lingered at the sensitive tip, his tongue swirling unremittingly. That tongue was artful, masterful, and cruel. It flicked back and forth, teasing him before he was devoured once more. A low guttural sound was emitted from the back of John’s throat and he pushed his hips forward. Sherlock’s mouth opened to accept it as the tip threatened to hit the back of his throat.

Fingers pressed into John’s chest, seeming to absorb the vibrations of the shudders that wracked John’s body, as if he was Sherlock’s violin. The detective’s lengthy fingers took hold of John’s testicles, kneading the flesh and causing John to moan. It was more like a bellow that threatened to stir the bells behind them. His nails continued their feverish claw at the wall, and if it wasn’t for Sherlock’s steady hand, he may have fallen over.

Sherlock’s tongue dragged mercilessly along the veiny surface as he pulled, his head bobbing with each coaxing movement. John’s labored breaths drew in oxygen greedily but none of it seemed to fuel him. There was a growing urgency for release. If Sherlock wanted a violent reaction he was going to get one. That tongue was in cahoots with Sherlock’s fingers, stroking and pulling at that sensitive length.

A warmth was stirring in John’s loins, flowing upward into his stomach. He let out a barking gasp as he hit the peak of orgasm and he pushed forcefully against Sherlock’s hand as he lunged forward, his head hanging loosely from his shoulders as he climaxed. Hot seed burst forth and into that wanting mouth. Sherlock’s knee hit the floorboards as if bracing himself, a muffled sound of surprise escaping. 

But he didn’t pull back. Instead, long fingers curled tightly into the material at John’s chest. John’s body was shaking with every wave of pleasure, trying his best to keep upright as he milked it for all it was worth, Sherlock’s hand working the out-of-control organ through each wave, and the salty result forcefully swallowed down with a wince. There was something gratifying about having your lover consume your seed. John’s chest was heaving up and down as he fought to find his breath, the sound masked by the rolling of thunder in the distance. 

Finally, Sherlock moved his mouth away, one last trail of his tongue over the spent member to avoid a mess as he straightened to his feet. As masterful as Sherlock had been in this new experience, there was a slight widening of his eyes as he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth. It made a faint and rather lazy smile spread across John’s face and he felt like he was half dreaming. Sherlock removed his supportive hand and John tipped forward, resting his smaller frame onto Sherlock’s chest. 

He nuzzled into the man’s throat, fingers shakily curling into the strands of hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He could feel the detective putting everything back in order: pants up, trousers buttoned, and belt buckled. All the while Sherlock was grinning with a job well done, tugging sharply at John’s jacket to pull out the wrinkles. The thunder rolled again, this time more closely.

“John, we should—”

John found himself moving in for a kiss. Didn’t matter where Sherlock’s mouth had just been, John went for it. Long arms slid tighter around John, pulling him in close. As if on cue, there came a large water droplet on Sherlock’s coat. Then another. One by one, the rain was starting to fall. Mouths hotly meshed together and John was about to stick his tongue down Sherlock’s throat when the clouds opened up. A light pitter turned into a thunderous patter. Rain water dripped between their lips and John drank down both. 

The doctor finally broke their kiss to take Sherlock’s hand. He was stopped just long enough for Sherlock to stoop down and pick up his discarded gloves from the ground. Tugging Sherlock along, John made his way toward the door.


End file.
